


The Gift of Giving

by Wealthywetsunny



Series: The Gift of Giving [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gifts, Soft Seeds, enemies but kinda lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wealthywetsunny/pseuds/Wealthywetsunny
Summary: The Seeds don’t think they deserve gentleness.She begs to differ
Relationships: Female Deputy | Judge/Jacob Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed
Series: The Gift of Giving [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901983
Comments: 26
Kudos: 162





	1. Jacob

**Author's Note:**

> I did post this before, a week or so ago, but now I’m going to add more chapters for the other Seeds, so look out for that ❤️

Between Eli’s constant rescue missions and Tammy’s insistence that Rook prove she’s not a traitor, she’s been busy. It’s almost impossible to find a moment to herself, it’d be selfish to take a break, she doesn’t have the luxury to lie back and rest. Each moment she’s not out there fighting, another person dies. 

So really she shouldn’t be doing this. If anyone found out, if _Tammy found_ out, the militia would throw her out on her ass and disown her. Or kill her for knowing too much. Either way this is a bad idea. She _might_ be able to explain it away, because right now the arts and crafts project tucked in her lap doesn’t resemble much. 

Three weeks in however, working when she should be sleeping, it’s suspicious. 

She stands and fans the knitted yarn out to lie flat on the floor. It’s probably the biggest one she’s done yet. A full, proper blanket. She runs an appraising eye over her work, hands on her hips. 

Her lips twist, picking out imperfections. She sighs and grabs the bridge of her nose. She knows what the problem is—she’s been looking at it for too long. She’s finding faults where there are none, only because she wants this to be nothing less than perfect. 

He deserves it. 

Lots of people might not agree with her. They’d tell her he deserves death. Others say he should suffer, pay for all the atrocities he’s committed, have those same horrid things done to him tenfold. 

She thinks he needs a little love. Some kindness where it isn’t obliged by blood. He has his brothers and sister, she’s seen first hand behind the bars of a cage how much Joseph loves Jacob. And though she’s never seen John and Jacob in the same room outside of that fateful day in the church, she knows they have an unbreakable bond. But she also knows too well how easy it is for doubts to fester. For someone to wonder if a relative's love is a necessity. If they feel like they _have_ to show how much they love you. 

He needs this. It won’t soften him, she doesn’t think it’ll be that easy to break down Jacob’s walls. But it’s a start. 

So she gazes at the knitted blanket she’s spent nearly a month on and decides that it’s as good as it’ll ever be. She just needs to find a way to get it to him. 

Which is easier said than done. Really she’s not too sure why she thought it’d be simple. But it’s when she’s tracking Jacob’s calculated routine that she realizes this might get her killed. 

It’s only when, by chance, with her watching him later than she should’ve, that she finds her chance. The sun’s down and Eli is expecting her for a debriefing on tomorrow’s plans, but she’s been spying on Jacob for days now and the longer she waits the more nervous she gets. Eventually she’ll create enough reasons in her mind to not give it to him. 

He drives off away from the veteran center—a place she scratched off her list as to where to leave his gift because the place has speakers all over and she isn’t looking to go through his trials sooner than she has to, and he heads South. 

Rook has never given it much thought as to where Jacob sleeps. In fact she assumed he didn’t sleep much at all. Too concerned about keeping an eye on her and the Whitetails. So when he pulls up to a dark cabin, she thinks it’s a lucky find on his part. Someplace quiet that belonged to a most likely dead citizen.

Then he pulls out a key from his pocket and she gets a small peek into the cabin and her mouth goes dry. It’s his own little home. 

It’s perfect. 

She waits as long as she can, hoping for him to be asleep before she goes in. She lasts two hours before she breaks and says _screw it._

His windows are all locked and so is his door, not quite a surprise but it still makes the bitter taste of defeat form on her tongue. 

She ends up wiggling a Bobby pin in his lock and sliding the door open. She slips inside soundlessly and gives her eyes a moment to adjust. 

As she pads across the wooden floor, careful for any creaky boards, she slips the blanket out from her bag and into her hands. 

Even in the darkness of the room the blanket seems impossibly bright. The red color she picked was a good choice, it’s the closest hue she could kind that matches the hilt of his knife. She wants it to be personal, for him to treasure it, so she prays that red really is his favorite color and not just some intimidation, psychological bullshit on what colors do to the brain. 

And if he hates the color, the small embellishments she added should help.

Rook stops in the middle of the room and decides to leave the blanket on the kitchen table. Unless he does something crazy like leave through his bedroom window, he won’t be able to miss this.

She folds it neatly, making sure that his initials, the large J.S. that took forever to knit, are showing on top. 

Her hands smooth it down one last time before she dashes out the door, scared to test her luck anymore than she had. 

*****

Jacob’s been staring at it for a while now, hand resting on his knife like he expects something more than a fleece blanket. Or maybe it’s knitted. He’s not sure, what the fuck does he know about this kind of stuff?

He considers calling John, have him do a search of the perimeter. Then he realizes how goddamn stupid he’s being and steps forward. 

It's soft to the touch, clean too, both things strange for Hope County. Things that only serve to make him more suspicious. But when he lifts the blanket and shakes it out, he huffs slightly, lips quirking.

It’s just a blanket. 

And...it’s meant for him. 

He tosses it back down on the kitchen table where it was left, only this time he leaves it unfurled. The deep red is almost identical to his knife—his rifle. That could be thrown away as a coincidence, but the initials were not. Nor were the tiny, scattered wolf heads. All tipping their heads up as if howling. If he were standing any further back he would’ve missed this tiny detail. 

“Now who sent you?” He murmurs to himself, lifting the blanket up, cradling it close before he tosses it over his shoulder. That’s when he breathes in and really smells the thing. 

*****

“Deputy Rook. You there?”

She freezes where she’s kneeling down, busy cupping water into her mouth. Jacob doesn’t have to say anything more than a simple greeting for her to tense. There’s only one reason why he’d call her. And right now she’s exposed and vulnerable. Jacob could come for her and she wouldn’t be able to do a thing. 

“Jacob. It’s been a while since you last called me.”

“It has.” He sounds distant, not angry or threatening like she’s so used to. 

She breathes deep, wiping water droplets off her chin. “And that’s usually when I piss you off.” She winces, quick to continue, “I’ve been good, not sure what I did this time, if I’m being honest.”

He laughs, a sound that makes her brows furrow. “Not calling to reprimand you, take a breath.”

“So...didja just want to chat?”

“No. No, I wanted to thank you for your gift. Never took you much for the artsy type, yet I’ve got a nice looking blanket in my lap.” 

She doesn’t miss a beat, “what are you talking about?”

“This blanket that just showed up inside my cabin. You gave it to me, spent time to make it yourself. Makes me wonder…”

She stands on shaky legs and fights to keep her voice straight. “What gives you the idea that I’d risk my life like that? For you of all people? Anyone could’ve done something like that.” 

“I’d be more likely to accept that answer if it didn’t _smell_ like you.”

She’s speechless. She never thought she’d have nothing to say when confronted with one of the Seeds. Her heart stutters in her chest and Jacob _laughs._ It’s hearty and warm, something she had wanted to hear for a long while now. That had been the point of this, hadn’t it? 

So why does his deep laugh make her feel so sick? Like she just signed herself away?


	2. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an update for those of you who asked for it 😉

She had been working on it for weeks. Going on a month now, it was almost done! And it’s ruined. He fucking ruined it. 

She’ll kill him for that. 

If she can get her feet under her that is. It’s hard, the bliss makes everything more difficult. Standing being one of them, especially in water. Of course John isn’t making this any easier. He’s got his hands on her shoulders, pushing her down beneath the water with apparent ease. He’s _strong,_ stronger than his physique would suggest. She hasn’t exactly wondered what laid beneath his clothes, but it’s hard not to notice that he’s got such narrow hips, that he doesn’t have any muscles that are noticeable at first glance. He’s tiny for a man—lithe even. He has no problem holding her under. 

She’d be more concerned about the prospect of death if she wasn’t so damn angry. No amount of bliss could stop that. 

Her hands are on his wrists. Tightening until she feels his arms shake. She digs her nails in, scrambling to go higher up the length of his arms. She scratches his skin and tugs at his vest forcefully. It’s a small victory when she yanks off a couple buttons, making them fall in the water with dull plops she can hardly hear. 

Rook’s being pulled upwards before she can go any further, breathing fresh air and shaking her head to clear her vision. 

“Ahh, there we go. Cleansed anew in the light of God, of the Father. Welcome to Eden’s Gate, deputy.” 

“John…” her voice is garbled and broken. Unintelligible. She coughs, turns her head and spits to clear her throat of lake water.

He’s still speaking, it’s just the two of them this time, but he’s talking like he’s got an audience to perform for. Reciting Joseph’s faux bible from memory it seems. He’s got a death grip on her upper arms, and he’s not paying attention to her. 

She clumsily walks forward as John leads her to shore, and it’s with anger still in her veins that she stomps down roughly on his foot. It’s not a lot of force, she doesn’t think she’d be able to make him loosen his grip, but it’s enough to quiet him for a moment. 

He snarls at her, all bared teeth. “Have I not fully washed you of your sin? Must we go through that again?” It’s a threat, not a vague one at that. 

“John.”

His lip twitches. “What?” 

“My bag.” She jerks her head to the left, where her bag had been thrown off in the scuffle to drag her into the water. “It’s wet.” He glances over monetarily, and true to what she said, the waves are steadily lapping at the leather. Soaking it. 

She could care less about her clothes, or the radio stashed at the bottom, even the food was a loss that she wasn’t quite worrying about. 

“Asshole,” she spits out when he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even apologize. He just stares at her, hands steadily tightening on her biceps. 

John clicks his tongue with a shake of his head. He shoves her back, letting her stumble. He glowers at her, apparently she’s so doped up he no longer considers her a threat. On a normal day, that’d make her mad, because how dare he, after the name she’s made for herself. Right now, she’s angry for a whole other reason. 

She rights herself, stomping her waterlogged shoe for emphasis. “I spent weeks making that—for you! You ungrateful prick!” She’s seething, but she’s dripping wet and her words are stumbling together, she’s more like a kitten than a lion. 

“What are you on about? Has the bliss finally fried your brain?” 

“My bag.”

“Yes I gathered that much,” he mutters. He ignores her for the moment and carefully walks over to her pack, picking it up by the straps, lips twitching as he watches the water seep from the leather. “What’s so important inside here?” 

“It was a gift.” Her shoulders sag, fingers clenching uselessly by her side. 

“For...for me? Is that what you said?”

Either he’s trying to get a rise out of her, or he doesn’t believe her. Because he had heard her clearly. It’s just the two of them out here. 

He raises an eyebrow, but she sees the excitement shining in his eyes. Her lips quirk, that's the reason why she did this for him, to see that expression. So unguarded as he is now. 

He carefully undoes the flap and peers inside—and she’ll admit—she panics. It’s not done, almost, but his gift isn’t complete. There’s still loose threads and some finished embellishments that would really bring it together. And of course it’s ruined by bliss water. 

He can’t see it, not yet. 

She’s slow, in both body and mind, but there’s a sudden rush of adrenaline that drives her forward. She catches him below the waist, knocks him on his ass and falls on top of him. 

She had the element of surprise, which leaves him motionless for a few precious seconds where she scrambles to grab his gun. It takes her a bit to drag up his shirt and take his pistol, where her fingers scratch his abdomen and makes him hiss through his teeth. 

He grabs her wrist, about to tug, but she gets the gun under his chin quicker.

“I said it’s not done.”

His eyes narrow, lips opening and closing a few times, before settling on a sneer. “You’re a liar. A good one at that. I can’t believe I fell for that.” She breathes out an agitated sigh. She’s a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them. She’s had enough, it’s already late and she needs to see how badly his gift was damaged. 

She knows not to draw this out, not to give him a chance to retaliate; she glares at him and smacks the side of his head with the gun. She knows what she’s doing, even drugged, and he’s out like a light with one swift hit. 

She clambers off him only after making sure he’s not too close to the shore, she doesn’t want the water to drown him. Without a second glance to his unconscious body she slings her bag over her shoulder and picks a direction and starts walking. 

*****

His bunker is a never ending maze. Hallway after hallway that leads to nowhere. Not even a set of stairs, which is what she needs most right now if she wants to escape. 

It hurts knowing that she won’t be able to help Hudson—she tried—but she has Peggies following her, she hears them screaming after her, alerting John of where she is. She can’t risk staying that long. 

Somewhere along the line she must’ve taken a wrong turn. She’s not sure how she did, but she’s deeper in his bunker than she thought. Suddenly she’s staring at a wall full of monitors and switches, a whole control panel. She swallows heavily, fingers twitching at her side. 

_She doesn’t have time to help these people._

It’d be easy to press a couple buttons and open the locks to their cells, but she can’t do that in good conscience. They’re weak and scared, just people not soldiers, they wouldn’t make it out without her there to guide them. And she has to leave, John’s intent on getting her confession, and being caught wouldn’t help anyone. 

With a heavy heart she bolts, going back the way she came. She hides behind boxes of ammo and army crawls past Peggies who make her wonder how the hell they got this kind of high security job. 

She pauses at an open door, cursing when she glances inside and doesn’t see anything useful. No weapons, no way out. She does, however, step inside. Temporary hiding, she reasons. Though it might be because it dawns on her that this must be where John sometimes stays. Maybe when he can’t make it home, when confessions run a little longer than he wanted, or on days when he thinks the world might finally end and he doesn’t trust that he’ll make the drive home. 

It’s his room though. She sees clothes on the bed in a heap to be washed. Dark jeans and long sleeve shirts of varying colors. There’s a bottle of cologne and a comb on a nearby desk. There’s no picture of Joseph—which is telling—there’s no need for one when John sees _Joseph_ and not the Father. They’re equals after all. 

If there’s any doubt lingering in her mind though, there’s his trench coat hanging on the back of the chair. With brown leather embellishments and tiny airplanes. 

She glances behind her and hears voices growing distant. For once luck is on her side, it seems like she lost them. Meaning that she has time for one last thing. 

He hadn’t taken her bag away entirely, he’d left it on the floor of his confession room. Chucked it in the corner carelessly. Of course she wouldn’t have stashed a pistol or even a knife in her bag, of course not...she’s an idiot, she knows this now. She’ll learn from her mistakes. 

She has no doubt that he was going to scour through her bag during her confession, he’s probably curious about what’s inside after their private baptism. Lucky for him, she has it on her; she fixed it, in fact. 

It’s as good as new. She does check one last time though, she shakes it out on his bed, tossing the clothes on the floor as she lays the blanket she knitted for him there, as if this was something he bought himself. 

The shade of blue she chose is gorgeous. Not exactly the same shade of his glasses or buttoned shirt, but it’s pretty. The tiny planes help the ensemble, it’s no secret that he loves to fly. It matches his jacket for Christ’s sake—he should love it. 

She tried to leave out anything to do with Eden’s Gate, their symbol is nowhere to be found. She wants this to be personal. Hence the main fixture—the scales of justice. Surely he’s got to be proud of that achievement, it’s a reminder to him if anything. That he’s accomplished and smart, that he doesn’t need the project to be someone. 

She won’t be around when he sees it, she’s already backing out of his room and checking if she’s all clear, but he’ll find it eventually. And when he does...well she has a feeling Addie might get her answer on whether or not John wants her as bad as she thinks he might.   
  


*****

Rook looked crushed behind that glass, her face absolutely fell. And he relished in it. 

That’s probably going to haunt him for the next couple of nights. Her open expression, the way she seemed to look _through_ him. He’d dwell on it more if they weren’t separated by a metal door, if she was available to touch. If he could just get a little closer. He had to let her go, he wouldn’t risk his life just to contain her. 

It’s only after Hudson is back in her cell and he addresses Rook as she runs over the hill and away from his bunker, that he wanders back to his room. He has every intention of calling Joseph, just not now. He’s exhausted after that encounter. That seems to be the case every time he goes head to head with Rook. 

He closes the heavy door behind him, grunting with the effort to slam it shut. And frowns at the scene before him. His clothes, the only pair he has down here, are on the floor. Lying in a heap because—

“Oh, Rook.” 

It has to be from her. She said she had a gift for him, only then he thought...

“I thought you were lying,” he murmurs softly, stumbling forward until he reaches his bed. He’s scared to touch it, to ruin the beauty of the gift lying before him. 

He scans his eyes over it instead. Shifting on his feet before kneeling to the ground. He inhales and winces at the smell. He imagines it’d smell more like her if her bag hadn't gotten soaked. Which is his fault

That’s fine. He can’t be picky. 

Hesitantly he reaches out and touches the blanket made specially for him. _For him._ The thought makes his lips quiver. When’s the last time someone gave him something? Something actually made from their own two hands? 

Sure, his family celebrates Christmas and Easter. He’s unwrapped his fair share of things, but nothing like this. 

He gathers the blanket into his hand and brings it to his face, burying himself in the material. His cheek falls against his bed, the blanket shrouding him. It’s stupid to cry, it’s just a gift, a gift from the enemy. But he lets out a watery laugh, hand scrambling to go to his waist. Searching until he finds his radio. 

“Deputy?” 

It takes a while, actual minutes of waiting where John goes over all the little intricacies of the blanket, until she responds. She doesn’t sound amused, more annoyed than anything, and he _hates_ that. She went through the trouble to make this for him and he’s gone and fucked everything up. 

Like he always does. 

“What John?”

“I found your gift.” 

He moves to sit on his bed, holding the blanket out on his lap as he waits for a response. 

“D’you like it?” 

He laughs, and he lets her hear it. She deserves to know how happy she’s made him.

“I don’t think anyone‘s ever made something for me in quite a while.” He pauses, tips his head in consideration. “Thank you.” 

He can hear the smile in Rook’s voice when she talks next, “you’re welcome, John. You deserve it.”

“Do I?”

She hums, sounding so close it’s like she’s right there with him. “I think you do.”

He leans back on his elbows, slicked back hair falling loose. “Even after all I’ve done?” 

“People change,” she mumbles, speaking quietly like she doesn’t want someone to hear, “you changed once, back when you were a kid and people did things to you that they shouldn't have. If you changed back then you can change again.”

John wishes that were true. He wishes he has the kind of faith she does. He tells her so in a soft whisper. Insecurities suddenly rising up. 

“Don’t worry. I think I have enough faith for the both of us.” 

John flushes at that. Dropping the radio by his side when it’s clear that she has nothing else to say. He hugs the blanket close to his chest, imagining how she must’ve worked tirelessly over it. For him. 

_Just for him. Because she has faith in him._

Maybe the Duncan’s were wrong. Perhaps there’s someone out there for him after all. His soul isn’t damned, God didn’t forget about him. 


	3. Joseph

He doesn’t look crazy when he’s sleeping. It’s jarring. Such an image would fool her if she hadn’t been fighting against him for the past two months. If she hadn’t seen first hand what he’s capable of; just as crazy as his brothers. 

Right now though, he’s sweet. 

She settles down next to him—well, on the floor, next to him, and slips off her bag. Watching him the entire time, she doesn’t want to wake him. 

Her hand dives inside her bag and curls when she feels cloth. It’s smaller than she’d normally make a blanket, but she figured Joseph would like it better like that. He seems the type at least. The same as most pious figures she guesses, not wanting to give into any creature comforts—seeing his house, his bedroom—is evidence of that. He has one blanket to his name, it’s thin and sad looking; as well as a single pillow, one that’s flattened by years. 

If she can make his life a little bit better by making him a blanket, then so be it. 

The only noise that fills the room is Joseph’s gentle breathing and the clicking of her knitting needles. It’s therapeutic in a way. When she’s here in Joseph’s room she doesn’t can be herself, that’s the best part of him sleeping. Because she knew that if he ever woke during one of these trips that they’d fall back into their roles. 

She falls into an easy rhythm, working away tirelessly. Hoping that she chose the right colors, though she has a feeling that Joseph’s the type to appreciate a gift no matter what. Which makes her throat clench. It’s becoming easier lately to realize why people flock to Joseph. If she wasn’t a deputy, perhaps in a different world, she might’ve joined him too. The prospect of someone willing to accept her, to take what she makes and love it unconditionally—she’s never had that. 

Rook stops only when the shadows start to shift. The sun’s rising steadily, and it’s bound to wake him. She doesn’t see an alarm clock, and no one else lives here beside him. She smiles at the thought of him letting the brightness of the sun wake him. 

She’s out before he has a chance to stir. Slipping out a window and dodging Peggie patrols until she reaches the chain link fence she cut. She gives one last glance to his house before she’s gone. 

*****

His house is up in flames. 

This wasn’t the plan. No one was supposed to get hurt. Least of all Joseph. 

“What the fuck have you done?” She’s not talking to anyone in particular, how could she when this mess isn’t one person's fault? Nick laid down support from the sky, Grace kept everyone in place with a few warning shots from across the way, Shary guarded the exit with a few other nameless faces. All while she drove to get here, wondering why Peggie chatter had gone haywire. 

Now she knows. 

“It was meant to be a dry run,” she says into her radio when no one answers. “What happened? Who let this get out of hand?”

“Rook, can we talk about this later? Maybe when we’re not in immediate danger?”

She looks skyward despite Nick not being able to see the shock on her face. She understands this fight isn’t over, that Joseph’s siblings are tossing out the notion of not fighting in each other's territory to save their brother. They’ve got a shit storm coming. 

But the people trapped inside Joseph’s compound—they’re done for. The resistance should retreat, they shouldn’t have let it get this far in the first place. 

Rook does a quick scan of the place, really only focusing on Joseph’s house. There’s a good chance they didn’t even know it was his. It’s not overt in any way, the same humble white building that many of his people live in. She wants to tell herself that her friends didn’t exactly target him, but that was the whole point of making this plan. Except Rook thought she had time. She thought she could get Joseph out. 

She doesn’t see him. Some of the Peggies are looking around, yelling and screaming for help from a man who isn’t there, and it takes her another second to realize that these aren’t soldiers. 

Some of them are, yes, that’s without doubt. Not all, not even a majority. Lots of them are just people. Civilians. She can’t go down there, she just can’t, she’ll die. Her own people might not stop shooting, let alone the Peggies. 

They need their Father. 

“C’mon, Joseph. Where the hell are you?”

He’s got to be inside. Trapped and burning. She swallows harshly at the thought. She can’t imagine how scary that would be, how painful. 

Fuck it. 

It’s pure chaos when she steps down from the ledge she had been perched on. She circles around back to where her cut chain link still is. It’s hot, burning to the touch when she peels it back. But if that’s the small sacrifice she has to make for Joseph’s life then so be it. 

It’s  _ hot  _ inside his house. The heat presses down on her skin and chokes her. It drags her to her knees wheezing. She can’t get up, it’s too dangerous, too hot. So she crawls. She crawls blindly forward and prays that the hole she came in doesn’t collapse. 

Rook wants to call out to Joseph, but she can’t seem to get the words out. She tries a couple of times, only to open her mouth and hack. 

It’s not like his house is big, there’s only so many rooms. Which makes her life easier. Not safer by any means, she still feels the ground rumbling underneath her, but she’ll take it. 

Her hand crashes into his door, and it’s just as hot as the rest of his house. She bites back the pain from cradling the handle and bursts through. The flesh on her hand sizzles immediately, burning until it’s all she can focus on. 

She gets in though. On hands and knees below the smoke she squints to find him. For a second she thinks he’s not here, that she risked her life for nothing, it’s smoky and she can hardly see. Then she spots him. Curled up and motionless on his bed. 

Ready to die. 

Rook is next to him in a heartbeat. Touching his cheek before she realizes she should be checking for a pulse.  _ Which she finds,  _ thank God. 

It’s no use trying to wake him. He’s out, inhaled so much smoke that she wouldn’t be surprised if he has complications down the road, but that’s a different issue for another time. Right now they need to get out. 

It takes her a minute, but she gets him on the floor as carefully as she can. He’ll probably wake up with a throbbing headache from how he banged against the wood of the floor, and she’ll apologize for that later. 

She grabs his ankles and realizes that she’ll have to stand. At least partially. She does so gingerly, grinding her teeth together at the burn that lights up across her back. 

Joseph’s heavy, heavier than she would’ve assumed. She’s not sure she’ll make it. If she leaves him she might. That was never an option though. She tugs him along carefully, pausing to suck in tiny gasps of soiled air. 

The caved in wall she came through is still there, if not just a little more singed at the edges. They move through slowly and he gets caught on a jagged piece of wood that tears his skin and leaves a smear of blood, and through her haze of pain all she can think is that Jacob is going to kill her for that. 

It’s not as crazy as it was before outside. Which makes her wonder how long she was in there. Which isn’t important—Joseph is. She wants to tend to him, to treat his wounds and revive him. And she would if she wasn’t so out of her element. Instead she looks around, looks for help where she knows she won’t find any, only to realize that the resistance is gone. That they up and left her. There’s Peggies and the Chosen and—

“John! Jacob!” Rook tries to stand, as if her yelling wouldn’t get their attention. She stumbles, legs turning into jelly, sending her sprawling. Which creates a terrible chain reaction of her coughing up something black and nasty. 

“Christ, Deputy.” John stops at her feet, hands on his hips from what she can see. “What the hell happened?”

She wants to laugh, tries to, but it turns into another coughing fit. Her hand waves uselessly, grasping at the cuff of John’s jeans. “You don’t know?” She manages to choke out. 

Jacob grunts, already at Joseph's side, picking him up. “We just got here.” 

“I was trying to convince Jacob not to run into a burning building. That there are others who would gladly do such a thing. That there’s no need for him to sacrifice himself.” There’s a twinge of anger in John’s voice, like he knows he would’ve been unsuccessful. “Then you came out.”

“Lucky you.” She tightens her grip on John’s pants when she catches sight of Jacob walking past them, Joseph held tight to his chest like they’re children again. “Water, John?”

She manages to knock her head back and look at him. He frowns at her, eyes sliding over her burnt hair and blackened clothes.

“Perhaps you need a doctor, my dear.”

She shakes her head and struggles to stand. Hardly realizing when John helps her with an arm slung around her waist. 

“You do,” he insists, tugging her along. “Joseph would be very upset if you died.” 

Rook laughs weakly, head tipping down on his shoulder. She tries to keep pace with him but he’s walking so very fast. Or maybe she’s slowing down. Her legs get tangled up together and she almost brings the both of them down. 

“Rook?”

She tries to respond, though her tongue is strangely thick. Sticking to the roof of her mouth. 

“Jacob?” 

John’s voice gets louder while she fades. She pats at his shoulder, letting him know she’s fine. 

“Jacob!”

Though maybe she’s not fine because then everything goes a scary shade of black. 

*****

It’s been a week. He tells her that, voice full of sincerity, and she can’t grasp it. 

“I’ve been asleep for that long?” 

“Asleep?” Jacob laughs, yanking up a chair to sit beside her bed. “Closer to a coma. Medically induced.” 

She leans back against the pillows stacked behind her and sighs. “Huh.” They sit in silence for a while, the only sound being the scritching of Jacob’s pen on a notepad. Rook almost asks what he’s doing, then it hits her that she’s been MIA for a  _ week.  _

“What about the resistance? Joseph’s compound?”

Jacob’s pen pauses, hovering over the paper. She turns her head to watch his lips twist. 

“What about ‘em?” 

She glares at him until he huffs. Hand tugging at his hair. “Your friends are fine, we didn’t mess with them. We’ve put extra security in outposts and at the roadblocks, but we didn’t go out of our way to punish them.” He pauses, leaning forward to stare deeply into her eyes. “Even though they deserved it.”

She only nods. He’s right about that. 

“And Joseph’s compound is in fucking ruins.” He throws up his hands with a shake of his head, stress lines running through his forehead. “We’re trying to put it back together, but it’s slow going. Then there’s all those people who don’t have home anymore, seeing if we can put them somewhere.” 

“I can help.”

He laughs, fishing out his phone from his back pocket and glancing at the screen before standing. “Sure, deputy. I bet you’d be glad to help. Get to know the ins and outs of the project.”

She reaches out before he can walk away, weak fingers curling around his wrist. He doesn’t pull away, stays there like she has some power over him. 

“Ask Joseph.” 

Jacob’s lip twitches beneath his beard. “If he wakes up, I’ll be sure to do that.” 

He slams the door a little harder than she deems necessary when he leaves. 

Rook has trouble sleeping the next couple of nights. Guilt weighing heavy on her mind about what happened to Joseph. Fear making her sick, wondering what trouble resistance is bound to get into. 

The knitting helps. When Jacob comes in the next day and completely ignores her questions on how Joseph’s doing and instead tosses her bag on the bed. On the way out he doesn’t answer whether or not the resistance knows where she is, so instead she says ‘thank you’ before he can slip out. 

Her bag isn’t exactly how she remembers it. It’s obvious that someone went through it, and she’s sure it was a whole family event. She can’t dwell on that, or even waste the energy to get mad when she sees the project she’s been working on for the past couple of weeks lying at the bottom. 

That’s how she whittles away the time. Her hands are bandaged and it takes longer to knit, she’s making more mistakes than normal, but she has time. She could leave, despite the burns and all the pain, but she’s waiting for Joseph. 

John keeps her company. Or more correctly he hovers around her when she struggles out of the bed and tries to walk a few steps the next week. 

“You can’t, Rook. You’re hurt. You’re not strong enough.”

“I’m walking.” She says proudly instead. Glancing over her shoulder at John. He’s gone a scary shade of pale.

“Yes, I see that—Jacob! Make her stop!”

Jacob pauses where he’d been walking at the other end of the hallway. Something close to a smile on his lips. He holds up his hands in a show of defeat and shrugs, “I’m not her keeper.” 

John makes a frustrated noise and grabs her upper arm, stopping her in her tracks. “Where are you trying to go?” It’s not suspicious or angry, curious maybe. 

“You said Joseph’s awake.” She slings her bag higher up on her shoulder, clinging to it tighter. 

“I did.”

“And I have something to give him. You said he’s in room 5?” 

John stares at her as she hobbles off. Using the wall to keep from falling over until her fingers catch on Joseph’s door and she pushes it open. 

True to John’s word, Joseph’s awake. He’s got a blanket covering his waist, but above his hips he’s bare. Normal for him, she can count on one hand how many times she’s seen him with his shirt on. This time though, something inside her shatters.

“Deputy Rook. Hello, come in.” He pats the side of the bed enthusiastically, apparently happy to see her. 

She steps inside carefully, shutting the door and keeping John out. She needs a moment alone to process this.

“Are you feeling alright, Rook?” He asks softly when she doesn’t move, when she keeps staring. 

“Your chest.”

“Ah.” He looks down, away from her with a frown. Sounding slightly embarrassed for the first time since she’s met him. “Right. My chest.” He drags his hand across a large bandage, wincing in pain as he does so. There’s hardly any flesh left to the open air—all that burnt skin. Going over scars from his past and tattoos. Ruining carved sins, which she knows would hurt him more than the fire ever could. 

“It’s okay,” he says, reaching out for her hand. “Come, please sit.” 

She takes it gingerly, her own hand still bandaged tight from when she grabbed a scalding door handle, and she sees the sympathy sparkling in his eyes as she perches on the edge of his bed. 

“My brothers say you saved me.” 

She nods, no point in being humble. Not after the hell she walked through. “Well, yeah. You needed it.” 

He smiles at her, and it’s then, up close like this, that she realizes his face didn’t come out unscathed. He must see the shift in her eyes because he just cups her cheeks and draws her near. Murmuring a soft “it’s okay, Rook. I’m fine.” 

“You’ll have scars.”

“It’s almost impossible to go through life without scars. It's just more to add to my collection.” 

She doesn't know what to say to that, there’s probably nothing she  _ could. _

He squeezes her hand, “why'd you stay here? You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, always running from my family.” 

“I had something I wanted to give you.” 

He raises his eyebrows, expression open as she slides her bag off her back and on Joseph’s lap. He stares at it expectantly, brows furrowing down when she fiddles with the latch. 

She gets it after a few tries, thankful that Joseph lets her do it herself. It’s more special this way, with her carefully pulling it out and handing it to him. 

She watches his face with rapt attention, her muscles going tense when he doesn’t immediately react. He carefully turns it over in his hands, unfolding the knitted mess before he lets out a quiet breath. 

“It’s a blanket.” He mumbles, voice sounding so close to awe. He runs his fingers over the knitted loops. “You made this? All by yourself?” 

“Yeah. Took a while.” She flushes when he breaks out into a smile, rubbing it between his hands. “Are the colors okay?” She chose a myriad of pastels, he seems the type to like pastels. 

He nods eagerly, reaching out to tug her in for as much of a hug as they can manage. “It’s beautiful.” He kisses the top of her head, squeezing her one last time before they break apart.

“Why’d you do this for me? I was under the impression that you hated me.”

She laughs, cringing as she stands up. Swaying on her feet. “I don’t. I mean, the things you do aren’t right, all the brainwashing and torture. The killing. But you’ve been through a lot. No one can dismiss that.” 

His smile goes a little wider, excited, before he laughs. “Thank you, deputy.” He takes her hand one last time, pressing a kiss to her uncovered wrist. “I’ll return the favor one day.” 

She tips her head curiously, grabbing her bag and walking out. Feeling his eyes between her shoulder blades the entire time. She meets John out in the hallway, he’s leaning on the wall across Joseph’s room, and he perks up when she comes out. 

He’s about to say something, a half smile on his lips, before he face falls. He runs his eyes over her and ruffles his hair. 

“You’re leaving aren’t you?”

“I am.” She rocks on her heels, waiting for him to stop her, he only nods though. Gesturing to the exit. 

“I’ll see you soon then, my dear.” 

She doesn’t say anything back, she doesn’t trust her voice. She’s never been able to deal with bittersweet endings.


End file.
